Friday, April 30, 2010

Last night, on our way into SF, I asked Collin what he thought of my blog thus far. I'd like to first point out that he has been nothing but supportive and even encouraging before I tell you of his slanderous lies.
"It's great, you have a strong voice....but..."
"BUT??" Please understand, that I said this with nothing but quiet patience, as is my way.
"But....I HAVE noticed that you only ever write about what you hate."

I prepared my hostile witty response, but then paused. By jove, he's right! I claim that it's because I only tend to blog when I'm at work (and WHEN, by the way, did "blog" become an acceptable verb??), so it's more than understandable that I'd sound ever so slightly cantankerous. But this seems like a lame excuse, especially when there's so much in my life to be happy about.

Let's start with something easy: Watson.
He's a bit of an idiot, but he's also only a year old, so I'll allow him a smidgen of time to get his brain bearings up and running. Mr. Watson Wigglesworth Stinktown, USA is his current full name, but it changes daily. He'll answer to anything. He's really that stupid gregarious.Collin and I specifically searched for a dog-friendly apartment last year, with the plan of getting a dog later on in the year. The following month, I suckered him into checking out some puppies that were available from one of the local rescue leagues* here in the East Bay. There was a litter of 10 puppies (lab/pit mix) available, and another small litter of two shepherd puppies. The shepherds, while freakin' adorable, really weren't all that into mingling, so we spent a little time getting to know the others. Most of them were black, but there was this one little brown runt that would NOT stop looking at us. Collin wanted to hold him with NO INTENTIONS OF GETTING HIM, SO DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ME THAT WAY! He was in his lap for all of 3 seconds before the cooing began. Needless to say, we put in an application to adopt him, and after a long, beleaguered process, we finally got to bring our little man home.What a long trip to hell that was!
But this is a happy story, so I'll tell you of what a hellion Mr. Watson was at first at another time. But seriously, what a turd!
He quickly became part of the family, learned a few tricks (calmly walking on a leash is not among them), and has found a firm place in our hearts. He also recently learned about begging, and the wondrous effects it has on strangers.
Watson loves: my underwear. The more expensive, the better. He also is a HUGE fan of broccoli. Perhaps due to this love, he has also become quite fond of farting. The closer he can be to one of us (though most often, fortunately, that would be Collin) before releasing those fumes, the better. He loves ripping the hell out of squeaky stuffed animals (though only after the squeak has driven me to madness) and shoving their remains in the cat's face. He loves beds. Our bed, specifically. He also loves pooping in the worst possible spot, such as atop our landlord's treasured rose bushes.
He hates: children. I don't know what it is, but they scare the hell out of him. He is also not a fan of sushi. Though why Collin would feed the dog sushi when there is a potentially-grateful girlfriend available, is beyond me! He's incapable of drinking out of his water dish in any manner even resembling civilized, creating what can only be described as a small pond in our kitchen.

Naming him Watson, I suppose we assumed he'd be intelligent. He isn't. He runs directly into walls, and he pees on steep hills, causing him to fall over when he lifts his leg, thus peeing on himself.
He's great though. He really is.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

As you know, I'm moving onto 29 in a few short short (oh god, they're so short) months, and I'm stuck in a brand new, dead-end job. Oh yeah, I work for a brokerage, mainly doing data entry. Evidently, I am not one of those fortunate people that always knew what they wanted to do and had the gumption to just go for it. No. I went straight to college out of high school determined to be a theater major. Two years in, I realized something no one had ever told me: theater majors are for sucks. Because if you had any real talent, you would have gone to NY or LA, or some such place and made it. You would NOT be interning backstage at your state school's performing arts center. At least I had the wherewithal to realize this at 19 and decide to change that destined-to-serve-coffee-for-the-rest-of-my-life major to something a little more useful. So I went with pre-vet, because...I dunno...I love animals and physiology and even as a kid was obsessed with watching operations on the Discovery Channel before it, too, went all suck. Along with my major, I switched my intern-ship and started doing work at the university's barn during lambing season. Lambing season, if you didn't know, is the frikkin dead of winter. In Massachusetts. What I'm trying to say here, is that it was damn cold, and went a far way towards contributing to this sour-puss you see before you today. The barn had no heat, and the intern was required to stay there at night. This means (during finals, mind you), I would wake up and go to all my labs in the morning, followed by classes, my regular (paying) job, and then spend all night at the barn with the best possible situation being that I would end up being covered in placenta. Yeah. This, however, is not why I decided the vet-life was not for me.
The deciding factor was a small grey bunny. Someone found him by the side of the road, obviously hit by a car, and took him into the clinic where I was working. He had a broken neck and a totally understandable fear of all things human. My job was to take him out of his cage and give him his IV shot. But he struggled. And little broken-necked Floppy got out of my grasp and fell. I'm a tall girl. He had a big fall. I went home at the end of my shift, sobbing, inconsolable, and decided I could never go back. I changed my major the next day.To Wildlife Conservation and Pre-Law. Oh yes, I was going to fight for animal's rights! I graduated, worked a bunch of crappy jobs before landing a job writing legal docs for a law firm. Where I realized the only people that are bigger sucks than theater majors are lawyers. What a miserable bunch!
Which brings me to here. Working at this suck job for a bunch of sucks, thinking about how much being an adult sucks. I should have just been an astronaut.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

I HATE yogurt. The only thing I hate worse than regular yogurt, is soy yogurt, which is the crap I have banished myself to forever, having adopted a vegan diet. I don't care how you dress it up, the stuff is disgusting, and I'm gagging by the 2nd bite. Even after shoving as much granola as I can fit into its 6oz container, there is no disguising the horror that is soy yogurt. First off, the stuff is GREY. That right there is reason enough to start retching. Once you've gotten over the look of it, give it a sniff...that is, unless the color hasn't already sent you running for the bathroom. Smell that? Oh yeah, the sweet unmistakable stench of bean curd, thinly veiled with some fake fruit that wouldn't even trick my idiot of a dog.

Here's something else: although I've never actually witnessed a commercial for soy yogurt, I've seen enough commercials for the regular kind to develop a thorough anger towards all advertisers. Why oh why do they always depict skinny women talking about their diets? This makes me want to smash the tv, not buy their product. Maybe for once they could show a woman a little (or a lot) above weight choking down eating yogurt, and talking about how much diets suck. THAT'S somebody I'd like to hear from!
Lastly, the only person I know that not only enjoys soy yogurt, but actually enjoys its most putrid flavor (peach) is a man. MY man. And unless he had some sex operation (HE DIDN'T!!), they're advertising to the wrong damn people! Seriously, show some beautiful, blue-eyed man in his Aikido uniform scarfing down soy yogurt as though it were NOT vomit-inducing, and maybe then they'd have a more accurate depiction of their target group.

So why am I eating it? Why am I putting myself through this misery? Because I have yet another friggin wedding to go to in a little over 3 weeks, and I'm determined to out-shine the bride I'll be DAMNED if my upper arm continues to waggle in a strong breeze!
There's another idea for a real commercial: a horrible future wedding guest choking down grey goop and desperately avoiding all strong winds.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

There is a welt on the top right bit of my head, which kept me from doing anything with my hair today other than throwing it into a loose ponytail, which I think we can all agree is the height of fashion. I'm also extremely tired, having barely slept, and was silly enough to wear non-waterproof BLUE mascara despite the fact that it's pouring rain all day today. That's right, apparently the effect I was going for (what with my glaringly pale skin, to boot) was "sad clown." I look like I feel : a little stabby.
This seems to be another example of my finally having reached Old. I used to be able to live on no sleep and be fine, so long as there was coffee. Today I'm practically main-lining the coffee and it couldn't matter less.
Perhaps if I weren't defending myself from dire harm all night, I would feel better. That's right: Collin is a TERRIBLE sleeper. He will be all quiet and smiling one minute, and then spaz out, throwing his arms out all willy-nilly in what I can only assume is an epileptic fit and not just some asshole sleep move. Over the past 10 months, or so, I've gotten pretty adept at defending myself (reflexes like a cat, I tell you!), but some things a person just can't be prepared for, especially when that person is SLEEPING! For instance, having already fended off two arm attacks, I figured I was safe, letting my eyes close and drifting off to sweet sweet slumber. Then at 3am WHAM! The sleeping monster upped his game and head-butted me! It was like the frikkin National Geo Channel set up camp in my bed.I tell myself that at least he loves me I'll have something to show the judge.
That's right, that was my sad, tired attempt at a murder joke. It's been a long day.

Monday, April 26, 2010

In three months, give or take, I am going to be 29. And then I am going to stay 29, for the following seven years. I'm telling you this now, because it is possibly the last time you will get an honest answer from me, concerning my age. This morning, while attempting to drive safely on my commute and use the rear-view mirror, I instead noticed two frown lines between my eyebrows that WILL NOT GO AWAY, no matter how many times I scream at myself to relax, for the love of god relax! It's official: I've gotten old, and I don't intend to handle it well. It also signifies a time in my life when everyone around me seems to be tying the knot.
Rather than go crazy on Collin and ultimately drive him away, I've decided to list with you the many reasons why we, too, should get married.
1. We are great together. This is pretty cheesy and an awfully ordinary kind of reason, but it's true. We're better with each other than without.
2. He makes me take my medicine. It's no secret by now that I'm an entirely different person without that one or eight pills a day, but I think he is also a huge reason I've leveled out slightly this past year.
*This does not mean, however, that I'm not still bat-shit crazy. As evidenced, I fly off the handle at something as small as lack of ingredients for a Reuben, and even more disturbing, I know every single line, sigh, and gesture from Dirty Dancing. I also used to have the music soundtrack on cassette when I was little, which comprised one half of my music collection. The other half was Huey Lewis and the News, which is probably argument enough for Crazy-Ville.
3. His mother would finally be able to visit. Since I haven't discussed Diane before, I'll tell you the essential stuff right now. The woman is uber-religious. Which is usually reason enough for me to write someone off, but current circumstances make such drastic action impossible, not only because she is Collin's mother, but also because she is the nicest woman on earth. She is kind and welcoming and you would have no idea that behind that exterior is a Jesus-lovin loon. and I say "loon" in the kindest way possible. Unfortunately, not only is her oldest son far away in California, but he is also living in sin, and if current circumstances were to continue, he will not be allowed into the sweet hereafter with her. He will, instead, be sent to that special place reserved for murderers, traitors, and people who voted for Obama.
4. We need a Cuisinart food processor.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Collin and I are fighting, over nothing...which are the most annoying kinds of fights. He says I'm in a bad mood, but I wasn't until he wouldn't stop insisting. He's been in a bad mood, which he insists is also my fault. And then all hell broke loose when we didn't have the ingredients for a Reuben. There may even have been some truth in his claim that I pitched a mini-tantrum. But, as that starts casting me in the wrong, I claim that it is neither here nor there, and problems had started hours before the "Reuben Incident."
He's currently out of the house, walking the dog and grocery shopping (what a dick!), and rather than ruminate on all his flaws and his ability to drive me to new, unexplored levels of crazy, I thought I would instead reflect on happy moments.
Let me tell you about our first almost-kiss.
We had been hanging out a lot lately, watching tv together late at night (specifically Home Movies and Trailer Park Boys), gradually sitting closer on the couch and making my current roommate fairly uncomfortable. Once, even, our hands touched! Oh, it was glorious! I never did anything, though, because rumor had it that someone else had a claim on him, and when she came back into town he would most likely forget my name. Evil bitch!
Then our friend Kelly, who also seemed to have some claim on him (though, being my friend, I can attest that she is neither evil nor a bitch), held a bbq. Collin and I went there together. After achingly watching him sit on Kelly's lap for the millionth time, it was time to go. I was tipsy, though, and being new to the Pacific Coast, I insisted I wanted to see a frikkin beach. He obliged. He brought me into Alameda, kind of getting lost on the way, and I got a tiny taste of the bay area.
*I'd like to pause here for a reader update: if you are not familiar with the Bay Area and you come here to visit and sight-see, by no means should you visit Alameda. It's not a real beach, and the water is pee warm -- reminding you that there are power plants not so far away. Also, it's just an inlet and isn't even the ocean. Really, tour the coastal areas and SF and wine country, and leave Alameda until you're thinking of nice-ish places to retire.*
At the time, I had no idea Alameda kinda sucks, and was more than happy to play in the waves and run around. At one point I insisted he show me a couple Aikido moves, and he commenced to knock me down. Then, I wanted to know how they tie their belts, since it's a knot I wasn't familiar with, and I dunno, I was drunk and that was interesting to me. He tried tying it and we stood very closely, and there was a moment when our eyes met, and we were so close, and that feeling was there that he might kiss me. Instead, I kicked his shin or some stupid shit, because apparently I'm an idiot, and I ran away.
Shortly later, he drove me home, and it was still early (not really, but it was a weekend), and we decided to watch a movie. I laid down about halfway through, my head on his thigh, and blissed out for awhile, feeling him brush my hair out of my face and gently rub my ear. We were both passing out, so I suggested bed-time. He stayed the night! On my futon (dammit!), and in the morning we walked to the closest cafe for some much needed caffeine.
He didn't kiss me until almost a month later.